Wise Up
by coffeemione
Summary: After the Batman's betrayal, a disillusioned Gotham is attempting to heal without much success. But when an international fiasco erupts, threatening the city's deteriorating survival, Gotham may be forced to realize that this battle simply cannot be won.
1. ONE

**Disclaimer:** As much as I would like to, I don't own Batman nor am I affiliated with Bob Kane, DC Comics, or Christopher Nolan in any way. I _do_ own all original and supplementary characters not featured in canon, as well as the plot. Rated T for language, violence, and thematic elements.

**Summary:** _It's not going to stop 'til you wise up._

After a shocking betrayal from the infamous Batman, Gotham is now attempting to mend its broken bones without much success. The fugitive himself is on the run, Arkham Asylum is undergoing a shady renovation, the mob is struggling to retain power, and the Gotham Police Department is being stretched to its utmost limits. Then, halfway across the world, an international fiasco erupts, and Gotham suffers yet another direct blow to its deteriorating survival. But when the city that turned its back on its mysterious guardian needs him most, the Batman finds himself equally as vulnerable – his masquerade, his only weapon against the enemy, is now being threatened not by a single person, but by the entire Gotham Police force. Perhaps it's time for Gotham and its inhabitants to realize that this battle simply cannot be won.

**Author's Note:** HELLO! I've been MIA for several years now and feel like there are a few things I need to address.

This is my first reentrance into the world of fan fiction in three years, and as of right now I'm solely focused on _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight_ (Nolanverse). So I apologize in advance for anything unsatisfactory – I may be a bit rusty! I'm incredibly concerned with portraying canon characters as realistically and correctly as possible and will try my best to do so; bear with me.

If anyone is confused and/or annoyed by the many new names and characters introduced, I also apologize – but I'd like to point out that few supplementary character names are given in either Nolan films, specifically in the Gotham Police Department. So in order to maintain the realistic vibe I'm going for, I had to whip out some creativity in that area and consult, you know, and such.

Eventually, an OC _will_ begin to direct much of the focus in this story, but don't judge quite yet – I've done my best characterizing this person and crafting her into a believable character, not some Mary Sue carbon-copy.

Also – I'm a compulsive POV-jumper. So if you're susceptible to headaches from three different characters commanding attention in every chapter, again, I apologize.

And finally – this fic may be a little unconventional for the world of Batman fan fiction, so be warned. This story is extremely grounded in crime and reality to coincide with Christopher Nolan's visions and is also very focused on the Gotham Police Department. I won't be including superheroes or villains with fantastical, unrealistic powers. Instead, I'll be treating Gotham City as a _real_ city with real issues, real crime, real corruption, and real threats.

So if you're _still_ interested after that unnecessarily long introduction, THANK YOU and WELCOME. Read on, enjoy, and as always, feel free to leave your opinions in reviews. :)

* * *

**ONE.**

Doctor Hajdari sunk back into his chair, staring at the open book in front of him, and sighed heavily.

All in all, it had not been a progressive day.

Upon arriving at the lab in Mamurras that morning, he was disheartened to see that their most recent test group had died; the five rats were lying motionless in their cages, looking more like stuffed toys than actual rodents. As the others began trickling in, the disappointment spread rapidly, and Rrustemi had even muttered, "So quickly? Less than a week?"

They set to work immediately, extracting blood samples and analyzing them, predicting the exact times of death and comparing these new results against their latest modifications. Perhaps the dosages had been too extreme this time, too concentrated; but Hajdari had been confident, possibly overconfident. And now that confidence had been replaced by frustration.

After several hours of silent work, they concluded that the losses in brain dopamine and serotonin neurons had been too high; in the end, the neurotoxicity proved lethal to the test subjects, poisoning them to the point of fatality. It was a definite setback in the progress they had been making in recent weeks, there was no denying that.

"If we had continued to administer the scheduled doses, withdrawal would not have set in," Meshkalla had said, voicing what everyone else already knew. "It was withdrawal that killed them, Hajdari. The addictive properties –"

"Yes, Meshkalla, I know," he'd snapped, scowling. "The addictive properties are, as of right now, still irremovable."

Another week's worth of development wasted, Hajdari thought now, glaring at the book as if it had been responsible for the failure. They were no closer to their answer, no closer to discovering a way to effectively remove the dangerous addictive properties of the methamphetamine drug.

The book was staring back, perhaps mocking him, asking him _why_ he couldn't find the answer; why were the rats still dying? He felt like they were so close, like they were simply _missing_ something, something simple. He fixated his gaze upon the page, reading the text, which discussed a newly-discovered receptor system that methamphetamine may bind to, but he wasn't absorbing a word of it.

"TAAR again, Hajdari?" said Rrustemi, appearing at his side.

"Trace amine-associated receptors," murmured Hajdari distantly. "Yes. I do not know of their relevancy, but I feel as though we are at a loss, Rrustemi."

"Do you think if –?"

Suddenly, the young doctor's suggestion was cut off; someone was rapping furiously on the laboratory door, but the intruder did not wait to be permitted an entrance. A mere second later, the door had been forced open, and a dozen officers began filtering into the room, their guns menacingly held aloft.

"Don't move!" shouted an officer in Albanian, pointing his weapon directly at the nearest scientist.

"What – what is this? You are not authorized –!"

"Against the wall, all of you!" the officer commanded, gesturing his gun towards the back of the room, which was fairly devoid of equipment and tables. "Now!"

The shocked scientists glanced at one another, hesitating, and then looked to Hajdari; he nodded calmly, not daring to make eye contact with the officer, and stood, retreating towards the back wall.

"What are you doing?" asked Rrustemi, watching in horror as the officers began ransacking the laboratory, rifling through drawers, examining test tubes, and ripping through notebooks. "That is the property of –"

"Silence!" hissed the officer, a tall, burly, and quite frightening man. He pointed towards the wall and Rrustemi, glowering, joined his fellow scientists.

Hajdari did not dare speak up; he had heard rumors of the Albanian police force and had heard subsequent rumors about those who did dare challenge any officer. They were operating under direct authorization of the Prime Minister, he was sure of that much, but he did not understand the unexpected intrusion.

They were pocketing notebooks and papers which documented classified formulas, _their_ classified formulas. An officer had discovered their storage room now, behind a heavy metal door on the eastern wall, and called over a few others; Hajdari hesitated a moment in alarm, nearly raising his voice, but halted. If they were here for the drug, then he could do nothing to stop them.

"Which of you is Doctor Hajdari?" the first officer demanded, approaching the scientists.

Hajdari took a short step forward, raising his head to mirror the man's intense, determined gaze. He had no fear, and he knew better than to challenge this man; but panic raced through him, the same panic his colleagues were surely experiencing as well.

"You are hereby accused of operating an illicit scientific research program without the knowledge of the Albanian government," the man said matter-of-factly as if he were reading from a document. "Under orders of Prime Minister Demisovski we are authorized to seize all formulas, research, and analyses pertaining to the methamphetamine drug you are testing as well as your entire inventory of completed samples."

"Prime Minister Demisovski has never before implied our activities here were prohibited," said Hajdari in disbelief.

"That is not your concern," said the officer. "I am here to officially declare the confiscation and to notify you that you will not be required to stand trial if you willingly cooperate. Do we have a problem here?"

Hajdari chanced a glanced at his colleagues, only to be met with mixed expressions of shock, outrage, and apprehension; this couldn't be happening. After years of experimentation, research, development, and money spent, the government was finally deciding to look into what had previously not been a problem? They were doing nothing wrong, nothing unlawful; their mission was to further the treatment of attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. They were _helping_ people. What were Demisovski's true motives?

The officer offered no explanations, and Hajdari knew not to ask; he would not receive any information. They were expected to simply step aside, no questions raised. And Hajdari was no fool; he knew the consequences of refusing.

"No," he said clearly, his face devoid of emotion.

"Good," said the officer. "After a final sweep of the laboratory, we will be on our way. The place is to be completely cleared out within twenty-four hours and anything left inside will be burned. Understood?"

Hajdari nodded curtly, feigning agreement while suppressing his boiling indignation.

An hour later, when the officers had left, the shell-shocked scientists stared at their empty laboratory, still half-hoping it was a joke or a mistake. Hajdari personally felt as if he had just lost a child; his life's work, confiscated with no warning and for no legitimate reason. Gone.

"_Kopiles_," Rrustemi cursed under his breath, his voice shaking in anger. "Classified – classified material, now being sold on the black market for all we know."

"They have no idea," Meshkalla whispered, examining a broken breaker mercilessly discarded on the floor. "It is not yet suitable for medicinal purposes, and it will prove fatal if abused." He looked up to Hajdari, as if hoping the man would have an answer, a plan, a way to rectify the unexpected situation. "What will we do?"

"We cannot let this pass," Hajdari said quietly. "The drug cannot fall into the wrong hands, and I do not doubt such will be the case. We have little chance of negotiating with the government. But mark my words –"

The scientists were nodding in agreement, some still white in the face, others red with rage. Hajdari looked around at the group of men, all dedicated to their purpose, none willing to give it up so easily.

"We _will_ not let this pass."

* * *

"Adams, you're LATE!"

Ted Shepherd cast a strong, disapproving look towards the girl as she fled past him toward her desk, looking quite out of sorts. Deputy Commissioner Flanagan was summoning him from across the room, but he still made a point to chastise the girl before trudging over to Flanagan; whatever he wanted, it was inevitably pointless and irrelevant. He _knew_ they were still tying up loose ends from the Langford murders – one look at the bustling room would indicate things were still incredibly hectic – but Flanagan always seemed adamant about making Shepherd's job as difficult as possible.

"I know, I'm sorry, Captain, I really am, but my taxi driver had –"

"Save it," Shepherd snapped. "Just don't make this a pattern, Adams."

"– a heart attack," the detective finished under her breath, slamming her bag down onto her desk.

"There's a file you need to look over before the meeting starts," said Shepherd, blatantly ignoring Flanagan's unnecessary arm gestures across the room. "It's currently crushed under your bag there. Ten minutes. Try not to be _late_."

He thought he heard Adams mutter something vaguely offensive, but he chose to ignore it for once and made his way across the station, half-hoping Flanagan would have a heart attack himself before he got there. He just didn't have _time _for this, not now, not today. Major Crimes was completely swamped and Shepherd, being a captain, had an excessive number of tasks to juggle whereas Flanagan obviously had nothing to do at all.

"Yes, sir?"

"Captain Shepherd, would you care to explain what Lisa Shapiro is doing here in our holding cells today?"

"Being held under suspicion of attempted murder, I imagine," replied Shepherd, assuming a mocking expression of innocence.

Flanagan did not look amused. "She was cleared, Captain. According to the Homicide Division's report, she was disassociated from the Langford murders. Our cells are pushed to maximum capacity today as it is and we –"

"That report was filed two hours ago," Shepherd said flatly. This was not something he should've had to explain to the Deputy Commissioner. But then again, Flanagan was only occupying the position temporarily as a result of the Commissioner's ongoing unit makeover. It was a fact the deputy seemed to often forget, and he knew little to nothing about the operations of the Major Crimes Unit. Shepherd had been meaning to raise his concerns with the Commissioner, as Flanagan was now actually hindering their efforts, but then the Langford murder case erupted and the unit's attention had been completely diverted all week.

"Since then new _substantive_ evidence has arisen, and as Shapiro was already in our interrogation room being debriefed, we booked her and are holding her until she can be transported to County. I thought this was documented in the hourlies, sir?"

Flanagan obviously did not read the hourlies; he narrowed his eyes at the captain, who was easily a foot taller than he, as if accusing him of fabricating the entire story. "Yes, of course, I was just – I was verifying, Shepherd. I haven't seen a report filed from _this_ unit yet and as of right now, I'd consider it late."

"It isn't late, Flanagan," interjected Commissioner Gordon, stepping out of his office behind the deputy. "It's still an active protocol. The evidence hasn't completely been analyzed and documented yet. But I think Captain Shepherd has everything under control here." He calmly looked to Shepherd, who nodded, feeling a small swell of pride in the face of Flanagan's arrogance.

The short, stocky man opened his mouth and closed it several times, but Gordon pretended to take no notice and turned to Shepherd, looking rather weary.

"Five minutes," he said, and Shepherd nodded before promptly turning his back on Flanagan and heading across the room.

"Done?" he barked at Adams, passing by her disorganized workstation.

"Yes, sir, I'm just signing the release papers." Adams scribbled furiously across the document without looking up. "The children are still here, right? So is someone from Social Services coming to pick them up?"

"Yeah," said Shepherd. He paused to wait as Adams stuffed the papers back into the folder. "Within the hour. They've been debriefed already so we're prepared to release them, as you _did_ just sign the papers for the transfer, I assume?"

She pursed her lips and handed the folder to her boss, apparently choosing to hold her tongue, then pushed back her chair and followed Shepherd toward the conference room.

Five minutes later, the other high-ranking officers of Gotham's Major Crimes Unit had filed into the large, circular room, some occupying the hard chairs at the wooden table, others standing against the walls with their arms crossed. Shepherd took a seat alongside Dick Westbrook, who seemed to be nodding off already, and a couple of new sergeants he wasn't completely familiar with yet. Behind him, he could feel Detective Adams fretfully bouncing from foot to foot and, looking around the room, he saw many similar expressions of anxiety, frustration, and weariness. It was clear that lately, Major Crimes was being pushed to its limits.

Ever since Gordon's induction as Commissioner, he frequently convened the officers in order to increase communication and improve collaboration. Shepherd knew Gordon had idealistic hopes of cleansing the department, although it wasn't an easy task by any means, if it were even possible at all. But such meetings did further the productivity of Major Crimes, or so it seemed. Today, Shepherd imagined Gordon would address the current status of the Langford investigation as well as the McClain arrest and trial. He would, as usual, review protocols and tasks for the day. Everyone would expect that.

But Gordon had also granted Shepherd permission to address the officers and present a new theory he had been working up in his own time. Such a plan would either be well-received or easily dismissed, he knew; it was probably a stretch at best, and it _was_ currently in its early stages of development. But Shepherd had enough confidence to bring the issue to light. He was anxious to see the reactions of his colleagues, for he hadn't fully shared his thoughts with anyone – not Adams, not O'Reilly, and not even the Commissioner himself.

The door snapped shut and everyone simultaneously broke off their quiet conversations, watching as Commissioner Gordon hurried into the room and took a seat at the table. "Morning, everyone," he called, taking a swig from his cup of coffee.

The officers muttered their own hellos; Shepherd noted that no one dared use the phrase "_good_ morning," because lately, their mornings had been everything but.

"All right, let's get this started, I know we have a busy day ahead of us," Gordon said, clasping his hands on the table and looking around. "Captain Shepherd, where are we on transferring the Langford children?"

"The transfer papers were just signed, sir," said Shepherd. "Social Services is sending someone over to pick them up in less than an hour. From there, they'll be held at their district office until a foster care agreement is set up."

Gordon nodded, again looking noticeably exhausted, in Shepherd's opinion. He wondered if perhaps Gordon was thinking of the children, wondering what would happen to them, as he knew the Commissioner had children himself. The situation was heartrending, yes, like so many others, but Shepherd had long ago learned not to dwell on such details; it was out of their hands, and the truth of the matter was that it happened every day in Gotham City.

"Has forensics finished the analysis on the murder weapons yet?"

Shepherd shook his head. "No, sir, not yet, last I heard, they were having a tough time deciphering a couple sets of fingerprints."

"Partly why we're still holding Lisa Shapiro, sir," said Jason Bard, on liaison from the Homicide Division. "We found a set of her prints on one of the weapons, and we have reason to believe she's withholding information that could assist the investigation."

"Haul her back into interrogation," said Gordon. He glanced down, shuffling through a stack of papers, evidently searching for something. "See if she'll cooperate. No deals, Detective," he added, peering at Bard over the top rim of his glasses. "If she refuses, we'll transfer her to County early."

"Yes, sir," said Bard.

"And what's the status on Judge McClain?" asked Gordon, and Shepherd visibly noticed several officers shuffling their feet or glancing towards the floor. He scowled, narrowing his eyes at each of them in turn, knowing their individual names, positions, and histories as he did nearly everyone in the unit (which was a skill he took a bit of pride in); they had literally been seconds away from their own arrests in conjunction with McClain. Shepherd knew, of course, because _he_ had done the arresting, and he undoubtedly knew of their involvement, even if the majority of the unit was oblivious. Like so many times before in the history of the department, they got off due to a convenient lack of substantial evidence. Shepherd, however, would know better than to turn a blind eye in the future.

"He's at County," said the short, scrawny lieutenant that had been responsible for bringing McClain in; he was evidently quite pleased with his first major success since his arrival at MCU.

"Yes, I know where he is, Lieutenant, but I'm asking about the status of the trial."

The man, who Shepherd did not know well, looked slightly flustered, and Shepherd could hear Detective Adams stifle a snorting laugh behind him. "He entered a not guilty plea at the arraignment, and the preliminary hearing is tomorrow, sir, so he's being detained without bail until then."

"All right. Leave any new developments on my desk, Lieutenant, and I'll need a full account of the preliminary hearing tomorrow."

He nodded, his satisfaction once more manifesting itself in his expression. Gordon rustled through his papers again for a moment and cleared his throat, about to continue, but was swiftly interrupted by a man two seats down from Shepherd.

"Commissioner, I was overlooking the suspect list for the Langford murders," Miles O'Reilly suddenly said, his smooth voice resonating around the room. Shepherd frowned; the Langford murder case was finally coming to a close, they had _just_ finished that discussion, and MCU didn't need uninformed detectives bringing up irrelevant points. Shepherd knew O'Reilly was still sore over the fact that Adams, his own partner, had arrived on the scene first and made the arrests herself; O'Reilly, as efficient as he was, notoriously suffered from an inflated ego. He hadn't appreciated Adams stealing a bit of the spotlight for herself, and ever since, he'd been in an especially foul mood, which everyone in the department had had the pleasure of experiencing. Shepherd suspected the detective had an ulterior motive here; he crossed his arms, waiting.

"Yes, Detective?" Gordon prompted, looking fatigued.

"Well, I must admit I was a little confused, sir," said O'Reilly. "The list was unsorted and compiled rather haphazardly, if I may say so, with a shocking lack of detail. Whoever put it together wasn't very clear."

Adams shifted behind Shepherd.

"What confuses you, O'Reilly?" asked Gordon, exasperation now noticeably seeping into his tone.

"Unless I'm mistaken, the report didn't precisely indicate the top suspect, sir," said O'Reilly, "as is procedure. I was under the impression that somebody specific had organized the conspiracy. Most of the names on the list are either currently in custody or being brought in, but –"

"As most of you know from reading the Langford report filed by Captain Shepherd," said Gordon, clearly drowning out the rest of O'Reilly's sentence, "we have reason to believe that the – the Batman is responsible for organizing the murders. Anonymous tip," he added as O'Reilly opened his mouth again.

Shepherd scowled at the detective. O'Reilly had read the report, Shepherd _clearly_ remembered placing the folder on his desk that morning, but the detective seemed to enjoy making a public spectacle out of disorganization. From the smug look on O'Reilly's face, it was obvious he liked watching Gordon squirm; he was among the few that still candidly accused the Commissioner of aiding the fugitive. Shepherd made a mental note to reprimand O'Reilly after the meeting, as he _was_ responsible for the detective and would _not _have him disrespecting the Commissioner in front of the entire unit.

"Anything else?" said Gordon, but O'Reilly shook his head, smirking.

The Commissioner sighed heavily, looking like he'd aged ten years in the past week. "Well, good work anyway, people. All we can do is hope the bastards responsible will get what they deserve, but that's out of our hands now. Bard, keep us up to date on Shapiro's status and notify me when you plan on transferring her to County."

"Yes, sir," said Bard.

"Now, Captain Shepherd, I believe you had a point to bring up."

Shepherd cleared his throat and nodded, excitement gripping him. MCU had barely ever touched upon the subject before, and no one had ever truly thought it through – until now. To Shepherd, it made perfect sense. And it was _something_. Their noticeable lack of concrete leads was beginning to look rather embarrassing, and he wasn't willing to let such a perception persist.

"Yes, sir, I do," said Shepherd, addressing the table at large. "As you all know, it has been MCU's priority and responsibility to run point on the manhunt for the fugitive known as the Batman, and so far, we've got nothing."

There was a rumbling of agreement around the room.

"We're well aware of that, Shepherd," someone muttered.

"But think about it. The guy has to be getting his funding from _somewhere_, right?" continued Shepherd. "Look at his equipment, his suit, his weapons –"

"His weapons are his _fists_," said O'Reilly.

"– his transportation, his, uh – his motorcycle. I can guarantee you he didn't manufacture all of that on his own, even if he knew how. This guy obviously has access to state-of-the-art technology, maybe even military technology, maybe shit that isn't even _available_ to the military yet."

"We've never seen anything like his equipment before," said a detective sitting near Gordon. "There're no records, no blueprints, nothing – it's like he just pulled it all out of thin air. None of it is supposed to exist."

"What are you getting at, Shepherd?" asked the Deputy Commissioner.

"He has to be receiving funding from someone somewhere," repeated Shepherd. "That's a fact. So we track the funding, we track him, and we bring him down."

"I don't think it's that simple," someone commented, and half the room murmured their agreement.

Shepherd frowned. He hadn't been expecting anyone to jump onto their seat, applauding in agreement, but he'd hoped for positive initial reactions, at least. "Yeah, I _realize_ it isn't simple, if it was then we'd have captured the son of a bitch weeks ago. But I think there's a good chance he's getting his funding from a location or a person within Gotham City. Why?" he interrupted himself as Detective O'Reilly began to raise his hand in objection. "We can track these kinds of imports – the equipment, the sensitive technology, his vehicles. If someone was importing anything like that into the city every week, we'd notice. It's not exactly easy to keep under the radar."

His colleagues glanced between one another, some slightly convinced and impressed, others clearly doubtful.

"It's a start, all right?" Shepherd didn't mean to snap, but he was growing impatient. The plan made sense to him; of course it had its flaws, of course it wasn't _simple_, but as they currently had nothing to go on, it was the best they could do for now. The Batman had baffled all of them, and as adept as they all were in their positions (or _most_ of them), this man was one that they just couldn't figure out. So they had to perceive him as just that – a man, not a creature or an icon, because otherwise, their efforts would surely be ineffective. And no man could carry on such an operation unaided – not even someone this mysterious, this evasive.

"Anyone got any better ideas?"

He was met with silence; several officers shrugged at one another, shaking their heads.

"It's worth looking into," said Gordon quietly. "Shepherd, work on a plan of action and present it to me when you've finished; then we'll go from there."

The rest of the meeting wasn't as eventful or argumentative; Gordon listed off their tasks for the day, reviewed active protocols, and then sent everyone on their way. As Shepherd stood to exit the room, he nodded to Gordon, but behind Gordon's glasses his eyes looked vacant and remote. Shepherd wondered if the Commissioner was coming down with an illness, but he said nothing and followed Adams out the door.

And so another day at Major Crimes began to unfold.


	2. TWO

**A/N:** I realized I forgot to thank my super beta Bella (or buggerfck here on the site) – she's been with me the whole way on this and I definitely couldn't do this without her!

Also, I forgot to mention that I derived the title of this story from the song "Wise Up" by Aimee Mann. It's a fantastic, beautiful song, so listen to it if you have a chance.

AND I'd like to thank my first reviewers. It's nice to know that someone out there is reading this, considering all the hard work I put into it – and especially this chapter. I'm not a business mogul by any means, so hopefully the description of Wayne Enterprises' activities is up to scratch. If you happen to be a CEO or something, uh, read with discretion, please and thanks. ;)

FINALLY – er, I guess I tend to get a little carried away with my notes sometimes – if you take the time to read this, please take the time to review. I'd really appreciate it. A writer really can't better herself without feedback!

Oh, one more thing. Cookies for anyone who catches the reference to a certain Christian Bale movie that I'm rather obsessed with. :D

* * *

**TWO.**

Somehow, her desk seemed to have grown messier in the twenty minutes she had been absent from it.

Audrey Adams plunked down into her chair and surveyed the extreme disorganization, considering how the pile of reports waiting for her signature apparently had decided to explode in a frenzy of papers. The one on top had been due – what was that date? – she squinted; oh, a week ago. Damn.

She'd never been overly organized, she'd admit that, but the current state of her desk wasn't _entirely_ her fault. The entire Major Crimes Unit had been wholly occupied with the engrossing Langford murders all week, and boring paperwork was the least of her worries at the moment. Of course, Captain Shepherd probably wouldn't agree with that, but he seemed less concerned with her organizational skills than her tardiness.

And that hadn't _entirely_ been her fault either.

The previous night, Audrey had stayed up later than usual helping Rebecca review for an important exam that day; according to her younger sister, it was a "life-or-death" exam, and when Audrey had asked, "You mean if you pass, your patients have a better chance of living as opposed to if you fail?" Rebecca hadn't been amused in the least. Medical school had hardened the younger sister, in Audrey's opinion. Her sense of humor just wasn't the same anymore.

And so the night had turned into early morning, and when Audrey finally drifted off into a slumber filled with complicated medical terms and unpleasant brain charts, daylight was peeking through the blinds; the alarm had gone silent and forgotten. Breakfast wasn't even a possibility by that time, and though Audrey typically considered herself a morning person, she still needed her daily recommended dosage of coffee. After quickly wishing an anxious Rebecca good luck – "Keep them alive, Bec!" – she'd bolted down the street to the nearest coffee shop.

Being a detective for Gotham's Major Crimes Unit unfortunately didn't give her special clearance when it came to coffee shop lines, although in her opinion it should've been a perk that came with the job. So of course she had been forced to endure the wait, growing grumpier every minute she went without coffee. In the end, her order was actually swapped with that of the elderly woman behind her in line, but Audrey didn't care; she fled from the shop, waving down the nearest taxi.

The short car ride was spent in apprehension. Shepherd had mentioned some sort of meeting the previous day, and he'd had that self-important look on his face when he said so, implying to Audrey that he'd been given permission to address the unit himself. A meeting that would commence in – she'd checked her watch anxiously – twenty minutes. Oh, well, no problem, she'd thought, and thankfully, traffic had actually seemed light that morning.

But she hadn't been joking with Shepherd; conveniently, her taxi driver did indeed suffer an unexpected heart attack, and after a minor traffic accident, a misunderstanding with the 911 operator, and waiting for the emergency response team, Audrey ran the last few blocks to MCU in uncomfortable heels, cursing fervently.

The consequence had been a sharp reprimand and scathing look from her lovely boss.

Now, as the rest of Major Crimes finished trickling out of the conference room to return to their own individual tasks, Audrey surveyed her desk again, cringing. Compared to the previous four days, today would be nothing less than dull. The awaiting paperwork was the result of an exceptionally busy week for the department, and so far Shepherd hadn't commented on her procrastination, but judging by his current less-than-cheerful mood she wasn't going to push her luck.

Reluctantly, Audrey made a grab for the nearest report and began skimming over the stiff, professional wording.

After the first couple of paragraphs, she realized it was documentation from forensics concerning prints pulled from a knife – which case was this? What week? She'd been so focused on the Langford murder case lately that everything prior had become a collective blur. By the time Audrey reached the fourth paragraph, the report was clearly discussing that butcher's knife she'd discovered in the dumpster behind Hotel Monaco. When had that been? The previous week? The week before? _Which _knife again?

Frankly, her mind was far away from her desk, far away from Major Crimes, even; she honestly wasn't quite sure what she was reading at all.

Just as the week had been hectic, Audrey's nights had been restless, and it was beginning to take a physical toll on her. Insomnia had never before plagued her, but this wasn't so much insomnia as it was interrupted sleep. Recently, her nightmares had surpassed bizarre and were now borderline disturbing; they jolted her awake at odd hours to find her drenched in sweat and afflicted with disorientation. Rebecca hadn't noticed, thankfully – Audrey had a suspicion the aspiring doctor would feel the need to diagnose her immediately – but surely she wouldn't be able to ignore the dark circles complimenting her sister's usually bright blue eyes.

And every night, as habitually as the sun rose and then set, she saw their pale, expressionless faces, staring up at her, through her, begging the question, "Why couldn't you save us?" And Audrey would stare back, her gun hanging limply at her side, a useless object; she would mouth, "I'm sorry," as if apologizing could reawaken the dead, but it was always a futile attempt. The Langfords visited Audrey every night and they died every night, over and over and over, always the same way, always in the same place. And still they would ask the question she kept asking herself.

"It wasn't your fault," Shepherd had said afterwards. "Adams, you should be _thrilled_, you protected the children _and_ detained the suspects before any of us could catch up. The Commissioner's very pleased."

But she had shaken her head, shivering in the unusually chilly night's air, watching as the Langford children were led away towards a car. "If only I had –"

"If only you'd what? Look, Adams, none of us knew they had moved the Langfords; we were led to believe that the location hadn't changed. It's a miracle we found them at all."

"I could've gotten there sooner," she'd whispered, ignorant to Shepherd's attempts at banishing her guilt. "I could've saved them."

"You don't know that."

And now she would never know, but repeatedly seeing the porcelain-like faces of innocent people they had failed to protect convinced her that she _could have_. In the three years she had thus far spent at Major Crimes, a case had never before affected her like this. She'd quickly learned that a detective wasn't allowed the luxury of empathy and emotion; both were hindrances she couldn't afford.

And this time, both were hindrances she had more difficulty concealing. This time, the guilt wasn't so easily dispelled, and as long as the Langfords paid Audrey their nightly visits, the guilt would persevere – a secret yet heavy burden.

"Your paperwork isn't going to do itself, Audrey," said a smooth male voice in her ear.

She jumped, the voice harshly pulling her back to the reality of the room. She looked up to see Miles O'Reilly leaning against her desk, his arms crossed and his trademark smirk plastered across his face.

"Neither will yours, Miles," she responded, matching his sickly-sweet tone.

He frowned for a split second but then hoisted the smirk back onto his face, barely missing a beat. "Listen," he said, hardly bothering to keep his voice down, "you actually proved yourself to be less than useless this week. Gordon may even suffer an aneurysm and give you a pay raise. I don't doubt it, you know."

She glared at him and scribbled her signature across the report without reading it. "Sure."

"So what better way to spend that money than to buy your favorite partner dinner tonight?" His smirk widened, if it were even possible, and his self-satisfaction threatened to suffocate Audrey.

She resisted the urge to drive her heel through his forehead and paused after initialing another paper. They both knew a pay raise wasn't probable – Audrey had only arrived at the warehouse before the others; in her mind, it wasn't heroic or brilliant and it didn't _prove_ anything. It was her job, and she was still convinced she'd failed at it, anyway. But Miles hated being overshadowed by his own partner, and whenever Audrey would shine a little brighter than he, they would spend the following week bickering endlessly.

"I can think of a dozen better ways to spend my money, thanks," she muttered, scrambling through her papers as if he were interrupting something highly important.

The smirk on Miles's face finally slipped to be replaced by a rather ugly expression; a moment later, he was gone, surely off to harass someone else, but not without first knocking an entire pile of week-late reports onto the floor.

After bending down to scoop up the papers while simultaneously cursing Miles under her breath, Audrey took one last look at her paperwork and sighed, defeated. Her partner was right; it wasn't going to do itself, but she had now completely lost all ambition to sort through the clutter (not that she'd had much ambition in the first place). Instead, she leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes, an unusually stationary person in the middle of an endlessly bumbling department.

A phone went off loudly nearby and her eyes flickered open, adjusting to the comfortable, dim lighting of the room; a fellow detective at an adjacent desk raised the phone to his ear and began arguing with someone ardently.

In the aftermath of the explosion at Major Crimes, personal space had ceased to be a luxury, and one person's phone call became everyone's phone call. Makeshift desks had been set up in the only available, undamaged portion of the department, and Audrey's paperwork had mixed with Miles's paperwork (she was sure some of his reports were still floating around on her desk somewhere, but that was _his_ problem), and oftentimes even Audrey's _desk_ had been Miles's desk. Now, three months later, as Audrey absentmindedly watched the detective's wild gestures, she realized how cumbersome the repairs had been and how grateful she now was for the return to normalcy.

Apparently, however, privacy only existed in a limited form; the detective glared at Audrey and she quickly looked away, hardly realizing she'd been eavesdropping.

But try as she might, she couldn't find the willpower within her to focus on the task at hand. Her eyes kept straying from her desk; she watched as Shepherd briskly crossed the room towards the Deputy Commissioner again, someone was rapping on Gordon's office door, waving a report around, and Lisa Shapiro was being led to the interrogation room by Jason Bard.

"Adams, let's go," Miles suddenly shouted from about five feet away, reappearing behind a pair of forensics analysts.

"Wha – Miles, I already said no, I'm not buying you dinner _or_ lunch or –"

He looked uncharacteristically annoyed; his usual roguish smirk was nowhere to be seen and had been replaced with a serious expression. "No, Gordon wants us to follow up on a new lead, so grab your things and come with me."

Audrey automatically felt her holster to make sure her gun was secure and jumped from her seat, thankful for the interruption. She had no qualms whatsoever about leaving her unfinished yet desperately overdue paperwork behind; putting it off for another few hours _really_ wouldn't make much of a difference, right?

"Where are we going?" she asked, dodging people scurrying in the opposite direction in order to keep up with Miles.

He didn't answer immediately, and Audrey wondered if he'd heard her at all. When he stiffly halted to hold the door open for her, she caught a glimpse of his shockingly grave face as she passed.

"Arkham Asylum."

* * *

"Well, it is obvious that the Batman suffers from an acute case of antisocial personality disorder, which is often a result of abuse or neglect during childhood."

"And what diagnostic criteria can you cite, doctor?" asked the reporter.

"A reckless disregard for not only his own safety but the safety of others," the psychologist rattled off, straightening her glasses. "Irritability and aggressiveness, as is demonstrated through his constant need for physical altercation. He also exhibits a failure to conform to social norms in regards to respecting authority."

"Well, thank you for your time and insight, doctor," said the reporter, turning to face the camera again. "Tune in tonight at eight o'clock to see Doctor Cox featured on our special, 'Understanding the Mind of a Murderer.' This has been Marcus Northolt with Channel Seven News. Back to you in the studio, Martha."

As Martha reappeared on the screen, the door to the lavish, windowed office creaked open. Bruce hit the 'mute' button on the remote, but his eyes were still absorbed in the television as his mind repeated the words, "Acute case of antisocial personality disorder." Ah, well, it was just another mental illness he could add to Batman's increasing collection (according to Gotham's psychologists and doctors), wasn't it?

"Anything interesting in the news today, Mr. Wayne?" said Lucius Fox evenly as he entered the office and strode towards his desk.

"No, psychologists have never interested me much," said Bruce, tearing his eyes away from the television screen.

Fox took a seat behind his desk, flattening his tie as he did so and looking apologetic. "Sorry I'm late. Accounting is understaffed this morning and hadn't finished compiling the report by the time I got there."

Bruce shook his head, leaning back in the comfortable leather chair. "It's fine. Let's see what we have here."

Fox extracted a glossy report from inside his briefcase and pushed it across the polished table towards Bruce, frowning. "It's not as bad as we initially estimated, but the numbers still aren't good, Mr. Wayne, and Accounting checked them four times before they were satisfied."

Carefully, Bruce opened the report and ran his eyes down the page, his heart sinking. Fox wasn't joking – the numbers were shockingly abysmal, even if they differed from the original estimates. Page after page chronicled the analyses of Wayne Enterprises' expenditures in recent months, and according to a chart on page two, profits had now hit an all-time low in the entire history of the company.

"I think it's safe to say the company is suffering along with the rest of Gotham's economy," Fox said carefully, watching as disappointment consumed Bruce's face.

"That's one way of putting it," Bruce muttered. He frowned at a table on the fifth page that compared the recent and past successes of Wayne Foods. Apparently, the decline in demand for organic food within Gotham City had been hurting the subsidiary branch as of late; he had had no idea.

"Has anyone else seen this yet?"

Fox shook his head. "I'm planning on presenting these latest estimates to the board tomorrow morning, and I doubt they will be overly pleased."

Bruce inhaled deeply and then sighed, furrowing his brow. Although he _looked_ the part of a high-powered company owner, from his sharp suit to his complimentary tie, he had absolutely no desire to actually _be_ one, and he didn't find the idea of sitting in on such a board meeting appealing in the least. In fact, none of this was appealing at all; he didn't care for expenditures or profits or summaries from Accounting. He had no clue how Wayne Foods even functioned, let alone what sort of goods it actually produced.

But Wayne Enterprises was _Bruce's_ responsibility; it was _Bruce's_ job to further the progress of the company, to improve it, to use it to help the people of Gotham he couldn't help any other way. At least, that had been the perspective of Bruce's late father, and Thomas Wayne's only son would not shirk such a responsibility. He would not step back and let something his father had believed in flounder and die; he would not let the _memory_ of his father flounder and die, not quite so easily.

Wayne Enterprises held the capacity for more than just producing commercial ships and manufacturing electronics; it was a means for _Bruce_ to contribute. Looking down at the report, he now understood that more than ever.

And although he could still find no interest in the executive businessman persona, he was concerned; the company _was_ floundering, and he wasn't quite so sure how to rectify the situation.

"Before we meet with the board, I was wondering if _you_ had any preliminary suggestions, Mr. Wayne," said Fox.

Bruce frowned again, studying page two of the report, his mind whirling. "I'm not suggesting we shut down Wayne Aerospace, but according to this, our competitors are completely surpassing us. Ferris Air, for instance – they've struck permanent contracts with NASA while our experimental aviation branch is nearly failing."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," said Fox, nodding slowly.

"Maybe we can merge experimental and military aviation." Bruce quickly flipped back to page six, remembering a statistic he had skimmed over a second ago. "Drop out of the experimental competition with Ferris Air and LexAir, let them have some glory."

"Very plausible," agreed Fox. "If we're going to downsize, it makes sense to start there, and I think the board would concur."

"But the pharmaceuticals division," said Bruce, running his finger down the sixth page with the words WAYNE PHARMACEUTICALS emblazoned at the top. "I think there's potential here." He paused. "I think we should branch out of the country."

"Out of the country?" repeated Fox. "I don't see how that's possible. Our current budget doesn't really grant us so much flexibility."

"It's possible if we can terminate the research on reconstructive plastic surgery," said Bruce. "According to this report, it's eating up funds but isn't going anywhere, and Wayne Biotech can instead divert their focus toward their cloning research."

He looked up at Fox expectantly, feeling slightly optimistic and reprehensible at the same time – his mind was embodying that of a businessman's, almost too easily and without his conscious consent.

Fox looked doubtful but said nothing, allowing Bruce to continue his train of thought.

"I think we should look into international pharmaceutical deals. I really think it's worth a shot."

It was apparent he hadn't fully convinced Fox, but the rather impromptu idea seemed promising to Bruce. He wasn't exceptionally business savvy, no, but he _was_ determined, and he didn't care much if Fox approved or not. Although he wouldn't openly admit it to himself, at least not yet, Bruce half-knew the reason for his sudden engrossment in the company; others had noticed too, of course, but the board members brushed it off easily, assuming that the young heir had finally come to develop interest in what was surely his calling. And Bruce let them believe it; that was the entire point. But he had a suspicion that Fox, who was not quite so gullible, knew his true motives.

The CEO of Wayne Enterprises was silent for a moment as he curiously surveyed Bruce, who looked a bit more bright-eyed than he should have. Then, with a defeated sigh, Fox reached across the desk and closed the glossy cover of the report. "All right, Mr. Wayne. I'll present the idea to the board and see what they have to say."

"Excellent," said Bruce with a small smile and a nod. The board was usually pretty keen on his ideas, which now fueled his confidence; he was optimistic that this would pan out, despite Fox's clear misgivings.

"There's something else I wanted to bring to your attention," said Fox. He leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses, and something in his stark expression suggested to Bruce that they were no longer talking about the company's expenditures.

"And what would that be?"

Fox glanced behind Bruce, toward the door, but Bruce knew Fox had shut it on his way in; one could never be too careful.

"Coleman Reese."

Bruce pursed his lips and studied Fox's face, curious as to where the conversation was headed. He had been wondering lately if and when the subject would again be brought up between the two of them; otherwise, he hadn't given it much thought at all and wasn't overly worried. His mind was rather preoccupied with other concerns at the moment.

"He's kept quiet so far, but that stint with GCN was a close one," said Fox, his voice barely above a whisper. "He comes in everyday normal as clockwork, not letting on that he knows anything, but –"

"But?" prompted Bruce.

Fox paused. "I just wonder how long it will last, Mr. Wayne." He looked deeply troubled again but now for reasons unrelated to the status of the company, and where Bruce should have felt similar concern he instead felt a brief wave of affection for the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

"I don't think Mr. Reese is anything to worry about," said Bruce lightly. But again, Fox didn't seem convinced.

"You know that he was questioned by the police," said Fox, his voice dropping another octave. "I heard the Commissioner argued against it, but they interrogated him nonetheless."

Bruce said nothing; he _did_ already know, of course. Apparently, Major Crimes had hauled Reese in just days after he appeared on Gotham Cable News, and although the police tried to keep it below radar and out of the news, their attempts proved unsuccessful. Reese's claims of knowing the Batman's true identity weren't easily forgotten by Gotham's citizens. Although he was solely responsible for it, Reese quickly found himself in the media's unwanted spotlight, bombarded by curiosity from all directions. A credible, prestigious lawyer claiming to be in possession of irrefutable evidence wasn't something to be ignored; unfortunately, he had been taken seriously, and the attempt on his life substantiated the impression.

And although Bruce could not fully explain to Alfred or Fox his conviction that Reese would not compromise his masquerade, he maintained his beliefs. Both had been extremely concerned about such a dangerous aperture, but Bruce wasn't; in his opinion, if Coleman Reese still intended to publicize his claims, he would have done so already.

"And he admitted nothing," Bruce said, reiterating a particular fact not confirmed by Gotham's news channels or reporters but something he himself knew to be true through his own investigating. "As far as I know, he insisted his evidence had been defective and he'd been mistaken." And for Bruce, right now, that was enough.

Now it was Fox's turn to sit in silence, clearly still pondering the potential exposure risk. His hands were folded together in his lap, and although his demeanor exuded composure, as always, Bruce knew he wasn't so easily assured.

He finally opened his mouth and seemed to be choosing his words wisely. "Perhaps it would be best to terminate his services –"

"No," Bruce cut in with strong resolve. "That's not necessary. Reese stays."

Several tense seconds passed in which Fox again surveyed Bruce with obvious disapproval; but he then sighed, nodding, finally conceding although still not in agreement.

"All right," he said, a hint of exhaustion escaping into his tone. "I trust your judgment, Mr. Wayne."

"Thank you." Bruce nodded appreciatively, barely concealing a grateful smile. Then, feeling that the short meeting was now coming to a close, he stood to face Fox, eager to escape the confines of the office, however accommodating it was.

"Now, what do you say to some lunch?"

Still seated behind the desk, Fox looked slightly surprised at the invitation; otherwise, his expression was rather devoid of visible emotion, but he seemed to sense the abrupt change in conversation.

"I think I like the sound of that. What do you suggest?"

"Give me two minutes and I can get a reservation at The Dorsia on Third Street," said Bruce smoothly; he reached inside his jacket to retrieve his cell phone. "I think the manager likes me well enough. He seems to be under the impression that I intend to buy the place."

Fox chuckled at the comical glint in Bruce's eye as he speed-dialed the restaurant. A moment later, the manager was thanking Bruce for his generous reservation; the two men then departed from the office, chattering lightly as if they hadn't just spent the previous ten minutes discussing rather grave matters. Fox paused to inform his secretary of his leave, and Bruce flashed a particularly charming smile at her as he passed; she responding by blushing and suppressing a girlish giggle.

But it was also a particularly fake one, because truthfully, Bruce Wayne had not smiled in months.


	3. THREE

**A/N:** Again, thanks to those of you who took the time to review, I really appreciate it! And for anyone confused about the direction of the plot, I really apologize. I'm taking a while to get into it, I know, but I promise it's there. I'm a believer in a strong foundation before jumping into anything.

MUCH THANKS to my beta, Bella (buggerfck) for lending the words, actions, and ideas concerning a certain character's brief appearance – actually, that's two canon characters, really, but I won't mention their names to keep the happy surprise in tact – about midway through this chapter. She's so gifted in departments that I'm not.

As usual, please review if you read! I'll probably be posting a new chapter every one to two weeks from now on, just as a heads up.

* * *

**THREE.**

It wasn't what Audrey was expecting at all.

She had never made a visit to Arkham Asylum before in her life and had never intentionally planned on doing so, but such unwelcome surprises were expected in her line of work. And even though Arkham had been relocated, the different building and different location didn't make it a different place. Inside, the same dangerous minds still resided, and Audrey had a notion that the physical changes did not make for a more comfortable atmosphere.

"Still creepy," Miles muttered, turning onto a deserted dirt drive.

The desolate road carved a path between two tree-covered hills, and for a moment the small forest obscured Audrey's view; but the unmistakable outline of Arkham leered at her above the treetops, as if daring her to come any closer. It looked almost Victorian-esque, like an oversized mansion from the latter half of the 1800s, and bared no resemblance to the old Arkham, which she had seen but never ventured into. Truthfully, it didn't look like a hospital at all, much less one that housed the most dangerous minds in Gotham.

But Miles had explained the reason behind Arkham's new appearance during the course of their lengthy drive to the outskirts of the city. The Narrows, as Audrey obviously already knew, fell in a single night, nearly to the point of complete destruction, and with it went Arkham Asylum. Gotham could not have allowed such precarious criminals to wander the streets freely until it could be restored; a temporary location was an immediate priority, at least until a new hospital could be constructed to fully fit the needs of its inhabitants.

And so this building had been settled upon and deemed suitable for now; it was actually an abandoned hotel, indeed built in the Victorian ages, as Miles had said, but it went unused because of its inconvenient location. Thankfully, it was _extremely_ convenient for a place like Arkham, and hastily converting the place into a provisional institution hadn't taken much time at all.

Once, it may have been magnificent and attractive; but now, as Miles turned a bend, escaping from the shadows of the tree-lined road, Audrey realized it looked down upon them with a subtle, sinister air. Its beauty had been dulled into a dilapidated ghost of its former grandeur, and Audrey half-wished the old Arkham hadn't fallen at all – something about this place was just too unsettling.

But they had long ago left behind the comforting commotion and traffic of Gotham City; Audrey had never actually been to this part of town. She wasn't even entirely sure they were still _in_ Gotham.

Miles jerked the car around another bend as they wove their way alongside a miniature lake at the base of the largest hill. The reflected sun shone atop the lake's surface, awkwardly out of place in Arkham's contrasting shadow.

"Anyone tries to escape from here, they'll die of exhaustion before they get to the bottom of the hill," Miles muttered. Audrey grunted in agreement but said nothing, still engrossed in the scenery. And anyway, she didn't want to spoil the moment; Miles had been unusually agreeable since their departure from MCU, and she was entirely keen on taking advantage of his doubtless fleeting change in mood.

Finally, after speeding past boundless grounds of dying grass and shrubbery, they reached the peak of the hill and leveled with the Asylum. Large, wrought-iron gates were the first to greet them; Miles stopped the car alongside a speaker, buzzed himself in, and then proceeded to talk with someone inside the hospital. But Audrey wasn't listening as her partner gave their clearance codes and identifications. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the ominous building, its four floors of innumerable grimy windows, or the green ivy surreptitiously snaking its way up the brick walls. Even without setting foot over the threshold, she immediately decided she hated the place, and she truly pitied those unfortunate souls employed there.

A minute later, Miles was pulling into a gravel parking lot in the southeastern corner of the enclosed grounds. "Let's go," he said, looking awfully resigned as he turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.

"You haven't told me where Shepherd got his information," Audrey suddenly asked, falling into step beside Miles; they walked along a faded, crumbling brick pathway, and from its cracks dying weeds seemed to be attempting an escape.

"Lisa Shapiro," Miles said. He glanced up at the Asylum, his eyes jumping from window to window. It wasn't clear whether the residents could see _them_, but the windows were foggy and dirty, and the rooms beyond seemed uninhabited. "During interrogation, s_he_ gave us her brother's name, said he had something we might want to take a look at."

"And Shepherd believed her?" Audrey asked, suspicious. "Someone whose family loyalty is apparently nonexistent? Is he _that_ desperate?"

"It isn't desperation," Miles snapped. "We're finally closing the Langford murder case and we need to see if this is worthwhile or not."

"I'm guessing not," Audrey muttered. She wasn't too keen on the idea of formally meeting with some deranged lunatic, most likely a pathological liar that got off on wasting the time of the police responsible for his incarceration.

In no time at all, they had reached the front steps of Arkham Asylum; as they ascended the crumbling stairway, Audrey turned her head and glanced back, and she nearly felt faint at the sight. Arkham was situated atop the highest peak in miles, and the desolate Gotham countryside sprawled out in all directions. If an escape _were_ attempted, the runaway would have nowhere at all to go. Far off in the distance, twinkling lights indicated perhaps the outskirts of Gotham City itself, but Audrey couldn't be sure. The city now seemed like it was in another country entirely.

Miles was buzzing them in again; Audrey turned around, straightened, and donned a serious, businesslike expression. But again she instinctively felt her holster, and as her fingers grazed her gun, she felt slightly more assured. Slightly. Hopefully she wouldn't have to put it to use here.

"Ah, Detective O'Reilly, I see you found Arkham easily enough?"

A tall, gaunt man was descending a spiraling staircase to their left that, like the building itself, suggested it had once been magnificent; now, however, it looked as if it were about to crumble away into marble dust.

Miles shrugged. "I'm pretty good with maps. You must be –"

"Nigel Pappas," drawled the man as he reached the linoleum floor. "Director of Arkham Asylum." He held out a bony hand towards Miles and grinned toothily. Looking slightly hesitant, Miles shook the director's hand and then glanced toward Audrey.

"This is my partner, Detective Adams."

Audrey smiled and nodded, but she was grateful when the man made no attempt to shake her hand as well. He looked like he should've been a patient at the Asylum himself; old, withered, and slightly eccentric-looking with his flyaway gray hair and large, green eyes, he was almost a sort of extension of the rundown hospital itself.

"Well, this way, please," said Pappas, gesturing across the foyer. Audrey and Miles glanced at each other briefly and then followed the man toward an adjoining corridor. Audrey hung back slightly, however, taking in the foyer entirely – it was something she always did, almost subconsciously but still effectively. It was simply her inescapable instinct to absorb, analyze, and then mentally catalogue surroundings, especially in suspicious locations like the Asylum – and such a practice had previously come in handy more times than she could count.

It definitely had the perception an aged hotel lobby and was far too grand for the foyer of a mental institution. A dark, wooden counter ran the length of the wall, behind which sat a bored-looking elderly woman reading a magazine. A telephone was placed to her left and some sort of open book and pen on her right, implying to Audrey that she was the secretary, although she didn't seem to be anticipating many visits today. As the detectives passed, she looked up with vague curiosity, her eyes drawn to the identical badges hanging from Audrey's and Miles's necks.

Soon, in Pappas's wake, they were departing from the dark, rather derelict lobby with its high ceilings and tall, spiraling staircases; Pappas led the two detectives down a carpeted, windowless hallway, lit only by flickering candles. The wallpaper was now faded and peeling but hinted at the Victorian era; Audrey thought that it inappropriately suggested a false perception, as such decorations were clearly out of place in the hospital. She wondered why it hadn't been redecorated, but as Miles had said, its adaptation had been rather hurried. Still, the décor was bothersome to her and served as yet another reason to accelerate their hopefully short visit.

"You'll be the first ones to interview Mr. Shapiro," said Pappas as he turned a corner into an identical hall. His voice, although gravelly and dry, exuded a cheerfulness that shouldn't have been there at all, Audrey thought.

"Oh?" asked Miles. "Wasn't he – ?"

"I'm not sure if you're aware," Pappas cut in suddenly, as cheerful as before, "but Mr. Shapiro is severely afflicted with depressive schizophrenia and is known to be – heh, well, rather dangerous at times!" He let out a short bark of satisfied laughter as if he'd just told a side-splitting joke.

Audrey glanced at Miles and he returned her look of concern. They were with the _police_ department, of course, and couldn't be scared quite so easily – but no one had yet described the man they were meeting with as "rather dangerous at times."

"But he's refused to speak with anyone thus far, even our best therapists and doctors," continued Pappas. After turning another corner, they reached a rickety, black stairwell that spiraled downwards into the depths of the Asylum. "He was picked up after that first murder a week and a half ago, as you probably already know, and immediately brought here – "

"Yeah, we do know, and he should've gone through the standard booking at Major Crimes," said Miles harshly.

" – yes, yes, but brought here because of the threat we believed he posed. As I told you, Mr. O'Reilly, he's a highly dangerous individual."

"That's not telling us much," said Audrey. She nearly lost her footing on the last step but righted herself quickly; they were now standing at the mouth of a dark, dingy corridor that didn't seem to remotely coincide with the rest of the Asylum's faded Victorian theme.

"Confidential, my dear, I'm afraid!" Pappas chimed, wiggling his finger in Audrey's direction. "Now, I _believe_ Room Three is available for our use today –"

"We have the right to request information about the subject," said Audrey, although she actually meant something more along the lines of, _We have the right to know just how insane this guy really is_.

Pappas suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned to face Audrey, straightening his curved back. His eyes paled to an icy, striking green as he fixated her with an intense glare, an expression completely different from the slightly comical grin that had seemed permanently plastered across his face. Now, in the half-darkness, the tall man looming above them was more frightening than quirky, and Audrey could physically feel the hallway's temperature drop several degrees.

"You do not," Pappas hissed, his voice as icy as his eyes. "Mr. Shapiro is under the protection of Arkham Asylum pending his court date at the end of the month. A doctor-patient confidentiality is in place, Detective, which means your _rights_ go as far as procuring information pertinent to your investigation. You may no longer question the character of our patient."

He paused for a moment to draw a slow, ragged breath, but his unblinking eyes didn't falter or stray from Audrey's own, and she found it difficult not to glance away.

"You will do well to remember your place at Arkham, Detective, and I advise you not to stray so far from your boundaries."

An enveloping silence followed in which Pappas continued to study Audrey as if she were his own patient, but his stare was more distrustful than interested. He didn't like something about her, that much was obvious – but what had she done other than challenge Arkham's jurisdiction? The director seemed unusually protective of the Asylum, as if it were his own child that he had reared since birth, and perhaps even _more_ protective of its inhabitants. And somewhere in that comparison, she found an unhealthy, disconcerting connection that shouldn't have existed at all.

Miles shifted beside her, obviously uncomfortable, and she hated him for a moment, wishing he would've come to her defense. If he'd been aware of the confidentiality rule, he should've at _least_ mentioned it to her.

And just when Audrey thought Pappas's stare was about to burn a searing hole through her forehead, he coughed quietly, adjusted his moth-eaten tie, and turned his again crooked back on the detectives. His squeaking footsteps against the dirty linoleum floor broke the silence as if he had never paused to reprimand Audrey at all.

"Let's see, let's see, what time is it – ah, yes, perfect, perfect, Mr. Shapiro should be on his way any moment now..."

"What the hell was that about?" Miles muttered as Pappas bounced along the hall ahead of them, compulsively checking his watch every few seconds.

Audrey shrugged, attempting to conceal how immensely the director's outburst had bothered her. "Don't know. Guess I should've known that – the confidentiality thing, I mean. Anyway, I don't think this guy will be a problem. I'm betting we make it out of here alive today."

Miles glanced down at her and didn't seem wholly convinced, but she brushed it off easily and shook her head. They couldn't be concerned with the quirks of the Director – not today. Priorities first.

"Oh – ha, well, we seem to be a few minutes early! No matter, no matter!"

Pappas's echoing chuckles were quickly drowned out by a loud scuffle at the end of the hall. Someone was shouting something, repeating it, but coupled with a separate, maniacal laugh, it was unintelligible. Suddenly, a door flew open and bright light flooded into the corridor; several silhouettes appeared on the threshold, all apparently struggling, and the voices escaped into the hall from what Audrey guessed to be the interrogation room.

The director clasped his hands together and chuckled again, then rushed forward, barely concealing his odd grin. Three orderlies were hauling someone over the threshold; his head was distorted backwards and he seemed to be talking to an out-of-sight person still in the interrogation room, but through the commotion, his words couldn't audibly be heard. Audrey and Miles glanced at each other hesitantly, both wondering if they should do something to help; Audrey's hand found its way to her gun holster, but there it stopped, and she too paused, remembering Pappas's lecture on rights and jurisdiction.

"You there, what's this all about?" Pappas exclaimed, pointing at the youngest attendant.

"Aha, _Paaa_ppas!" the inmate yelped mid-cackle, drowning out the flustered young man's attempted explanation. He twisted his neck, struggling to see the director from behind the many heads and limbs of the orderlies. "Your rookie – she's a riot! You think she knows that my scars are the only reason you get a government paycheck every week?" He then cackled raucously, like he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world; in no time at all, one of the orderlies clasped a wide hand over the man's mouth, and his muffled giggles were, if possible, even more chilling than his inappropriately uproarious laughter.

"I don't believe I asked _you_!" said Pappas, his voice sugary and simple as if he were reprimanding a naughty child. The orderlies forcefully dragged the man past Pappas, and still he laughed with a frenzied giggle through the attendant's hand.

Then, from the confines of the interrogation room, a woman appeared into the hallway, flitting around and stammering nervously. "Dr. Pappas, I am _so _sorry – I brought up the facial reconstruction, just like you said, and he just – I can't even – I don't _know_ what happened!" she practically wailed. "He tried to _touch_ me, he tried to touch my _face_, and I panicked, and he – he just laughed!"

Audrey shrunk back against the wall as the small group neared the spot where she and Miles stood rooted to the floor. Then, an orderly shouted an expletive, and the inmate managed a quick and deadly, "You didn't get the joke, _puddin_'," before receiving a punch squarely in the stomach. "Oooh," he groaned ecstatically, looking up at the attendant, "a regular Batnurse, aren't ya?"

"I really do apologize, I wasn't aware that his appointment was still in session!" Pappas rattled off to Miles, who responded with a look of wide-eyed incredulity. The director then waved vaguely at one of the agitated attendants, and the men proceeded to haul the inmate down the dim corridor, further and further away from the blonde, shell-shocked woman standing outside the interrogation room.

As they passed, Audrey couldn't help but gawk at the undoubtedly disturbed man. At a closer proximity, even through the struggling, she could see the unfortunately deep scars carved into his face, adorning each side of his mouth; and as they passed beneath an overhead lamp, the light caught the man's sickly yellow – perhaps almost green-tinged – hair, which only succeeded in accentuating his peculiarity.

His eyes flicked past Pappas and the orderlies, and he saw Audrey blatantly staring at him. Briefly, his mouth twitched into a ghostly grin, distorting the scars and making them all the more noticeable. "Afternoon, Detective," he called from down the hall, low and smooth. "Send Gordon my regards, huh?" He gave her an exaggerated wink, and erupted once more into hysterical laughter as they dragged him away.

"I'm so sorry, sir," mumbled the woman breathlessly after a moment. She slowly took several steps down the hall, her glossy eyes boring into the darkness into which the inmate and the orderlies had disappeared. The man's high, chilling laughter echoed back toward them, and although he was out of sight, the encounter couldn't so easily be pushed out of mind.

"No worries, Dr. Quinzel, no worries!" chirped Pappas. "Oh, and – do forgive my rudeness. Doctor, this is Detective O'Reilly –" He gestured to Miles, who nodded curtly in response "– and Detective Adams. They're here to interview our Mr. Shapiro."

Audrey muttered a quiet hello, but the woman didn't seem to be paying any attention at all – Pappas could've introduced a pair of squirrels to her and she wouldn't have known the difference. Still absentmindedly wringing her hands, she stared off down the hall, in some sort of unbreakable trance. Audrey imagined she surely should be disturbed and rattled in the wake whatever happened in that interrogation room, but it was quite the opposite; she seemed – well, almost in awe, and her reaction was nearly as unsettling as the inmate himself.

A heavy door clanged shut in the distance, finally muffling the laughter entirely, and the sudden silence seemed to shock the doctor from her reverie. She jumped and looked around, almost surprised to see herself standing among other people. "Excuse me, I have some – er – paperwork to attend to. Nice to meet you," she added, brushing past the detectives without looking at them, although she didn't sound like she meant it much at all.

"One of our top doctors, she is!" Pappas sang with a broad smile as she disappeared around a dark corner, and Audrey had the distinct impression that he was doing his best to avoid discussing the deranged man, but she didn't have to ask – she knew exactly who they had just run into.

"We're on a tight schedule, sir," Miles suddenly stated bluntly.

"Right, right, of course, well, Mr. Shapiro should be arriving any moment now," said Pappas, obsessively glancing at his watch again and again as if expecting to see it jump ahead four hours. "Come on into our interrogation room here and make yourselves at home, this shouldn't take too long at all, I imagine –"

"Let's hope so," Miles muttered in Audrey's ear as he brushed past her and ducked into the room. Silently, she agreed wholeheartedly; nothing about the Asylum suggested sanity or affability, and every person she had met thus far had deeply bothered her with his or her own abnormal quirks. Frankly, she just wanted to talk with Shapiro, prove to Miles it was a flat waste of time, and get the hell out of there as soon as possible.

But as they settled into hard-backed, uncomfortable metal chairs under the blazing bright lights of the interrogation room, Audrey couldn't help but succumb to the numerous concerns that had been nagging at her since their arrival. The décor was troubling, the director didn't quite seem fit to run such an institution – again, she was of the opinion that he probably belonged in one of the locked cells instead – and their recent encounter with the demented, alarming inmate only illustrated that this place housed minds in which resided unthinkable intentions and ideas. Arkham had proved dangerous to Gotham once before, and as the two detectives silently awaited the commencement of the meeting, separate thoughts of the visit thus far undergoing analysis in their heads, Audrey couldn't dispel the notion that this Arkham was no different from the old one.

* * *

Only three days had passed since the raid on the laboratory, but Hajdari and his men had wasted no time in their arrangements.

An audience with the Prime Minister himself had been requested and, as expected, rejected. With certainty, Hajdari knew the Albanian government had no interest in hearing their complaints and would not, under any circumstances, even consider reversing the seizure of the scientists' property.

Their only choice was to take matters into their own hands.

Rrustemi suddenly appeared through the darkness, breathless and looking exhausted, and the other men milling about turned with anticipation at the arrival of their associate. In his left hand he tightly clenched a dark folder, and as he reached Hajdari, who was calmly standing near a grimy, lightless window, he thrust the folder at him.

"Were you followed? Hajdari asked in Albanian, his voice low and harsh.

"No," responded Rrustemi. "I am sure of it. No one cares to look for us here, Hajdari."

Hajdari opened the folder as the others crowded around, waiting to see what Rrustemi had brought them, hoping for something, anything useful or informative. Slowly, Hajdari surveyed the black-and-white snapshots inside with interest – there was Prime Minister Demisovski being escorted to his car, flanked by two of the officers he immediately recognized from the other day – the following three photos chronicled what appeared to be the arrival of two dark men, perhaps Italian, at some sort of safe house – and another was of Demisovski, undoubtedly entering the same location, again flanked by officers.

"When were these taken?"

"Last night," said Rrustemi.

The final photo was slightly blurry and seemed to have been taken hastily, but as Hajdari studied it closely, he recognized the Prime Minister shaking hands with one of the foreign men on the doorstep of the safe house.

"What does this mean?" asked Hajdari, unsure of what the pictures were attempting to convey.

"Look through the rest of the folder's contents."

Rrustemi nodded seriously; Hajdari, trusting the man explicitly, thumbed through the folder's documents, looking for something with which to make a connection. His eyes fell upon transcriptions of phone conversations, air travel records, fiscal analyses, reports of an extensive drug trade he had not known existed – he didn't care to ask how Rrustemi had happened upon the documents, already knowing of the man's mysterious connections, but was extremely grateful nonetheless.

And it all began to make sense now; the photos, the reports, and the timing all clicked to illustrate a scheme of which the scientists had found themselves victims. The proof here was undeniable and Hajdari almost wanted to laugh – the Prime Minister had been careless, not thinking to take better certainty in concealing the dealings. He apparently hadn't factored in Rrustemi and his connections, had not thought that the very men he had ripped off without explanation would come to know of his plans...

"He is selling our drug," said Hajdari, looking up at the curious men. "Demisovski has been planning this for weeks, maybe even months. Without considering our unwavering devotion and tireless work, he has made an agreement to sell our drug and our formulas...to crime." He shook the folder harshly and several photos nearly slipped out. "Organized crime. In _America_, no less."

"Did you see the air travel records?" prompted Rrustemi. "Apparently, they arrived only days ago. And the transcript between –?"

"Yes, Rrustemi, I saw that, I understand the weight of everything in this folder." Hajdari snapped it shut, and although the papers within served as proof, it would do no good; the government would never negotiate. They had now gained knowledge they could not use to force the Prime Minister to relinquish their property.

"The plane leaves within the hour," said Rrustemi. "They will be transferring it all back to America and there is nothing we can do to stop them."

"Then our plane leaves within the week."

Mutters broke out amongst the men; they looked at one another, wide-eyed, wondering if they had heard Hajdari correctly, not having expected such an impromptu vacation halfway across the world.

"Why? What can we do?" someone asked.

"If we can't attack the Albanian government directly, we'll attack their buyers," said Hajdari, his voice full of unwavering resolve.

"Attack? What do you mean?"

"We cannot allow others to possess the drug. The world isn't ready for it – it's fatal, and if they so intend, the blame _will_ fall back on us when the consequences are felt. We will have lost our honor and gained guilt. I will not stand for it."

He quickly thumbed through the folder again until he found the paper, the air travel document dated five days previously.

"Meshkalla, I'm ordering you to retrieve our last sample of _Yersinia pestis_," he said, turning to face the shocked man. "Prepare it for overseas transportation and take extreme caution – it's all we have." He paused to look around at the small group of men, all of whom wore similar expressions of mixed intrigue and confusion.

"Pack up your things, men. We're going to Gotham City."


	4. FOUR

**A/N:** Happy Holidays! I know it's been a good three months since I've updated this, and I apologize, but all I can say is life got in the way, as it always does. Thanks to those who reviewed in the meantime, asking me to continue! Greatly appreciated.

As I said in my notes last chapter, I hope this isn't seeming too slow – there's a plot I'm working towards, but I feel like this entire thing will operate better if I provide an effective buildup. So, as always, please read and review!

Thanks again to my beta, Bella (buggerfck), even if she never remembers beta-ing this part. :)

* * *

**FOUR.**

After five uncomfortable minutes spent sitting in the cold, metal chairs, finally, a buzzer sounded and the heavy door creaked open to reveal two people standing on its threshold. The first was a square-shouldered, burly man, clad in an orange jumpsuit and looking rather fatigued; behind him stood Pappas. The inmate shuffled into the room, his shackled hands hanging limply in front of him, and took a seat in the unoccupied chair on the other side of the table. As Pappas nodded to the two detectives and proceeded to pull shut the door, a self-satisfying sort of smile began to spread across the inmate's face for no apparent reason at all.

"Mr. Shapiro, I'm Detective O'Reilly from Major Crimes and this is my partner, Detective Adams," Miles rattled off formally. "Have you been told what this meeting is about today?"

Shapiro locked his eyes on the metal table and slowly bobbed his head up and down, his smile widening.

"Your sister, Lisa Shapiro, has been arrested on suspicion of involvement in the Langford murder case," said Audrey. Miles drew a piece of paper from inside his folder and placed it on the table within eyesight of the man. "This is her statement given approximately two hours ago claiming you have evidence that will assist us in our investigation."

Without looking at the paper, the silent man again nodded.

"Is this correct?"

"I want a deal," he suddenly said quietly, still without looking up.

Audrey glanced at Miles – they'd been expecting as much, but according to Miles, Shepherd had been adamant against deals.

"Mr. Shapiro, you aren't eligible for any deals," said Audrey, leaning forward slightly. "You've been incarcerated indefinitely for the murder of George Shapiro – you _should_ be at County awaiting a proper trial like the rest of your co-conspirators. So if I were you, I'd consider myself lucky and rethink asking about deals."

Then, as slowly as he had nodded, Shapiro raised his head and locked his dark, bottomless eyes onto Audrey's. His mouth twitched under his bushy mustache – he seemed to be laughing, although it was a hollow, perhaps soulless laugh.

"I want a deal," he repeated, and Miles sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair. "I ain't stupid. No deal, no evidence."

"We aren't here to negotiate," snapped Miles. "You aren't going to talk your way out of a life sentence in this place, I don't care _what_ kind of evidence you have."

"What I want," said Shapiro calmly, shifting from side to side in his chair, "'s not about me. Lisa didn't do nothing wrong. They set her up to take the fall – she didn't know what she was doing."

"Mr. Shapiro, we have incontrovertible evidence against your sister –"

"She walks," he interrupted, and his smirk vanished completely from his face to be replaced by a serious, almost sane expression. "I give you this and you let her off. That's the deal."

Audrey and Miles exchanged similar exasperated looks and Shapiro again broke out into raspy guffaws that echoed around the room, bouncing off the white-washed walls. Miles folded his arms and shook his head fiercely, and although Audrey still had her doubts about the man's alleged evidence, they didn't have the time or energy to continue with such frivolous negotiations. In a split second, she dispelled her stubborn qualms and made an executive decision.

"If your claims check out, we'll release her," said Audrey.

"Damn right we will!" barked Miles, turning on her. "Shepherd said –"

"Show us the evidence," she said, choosing to ignore Miles's splutters.

"Told them it was just a personal item," said Shapiro, chuckling. He moved his shackled hands to his lap and seemed to be rummaging in his pocket for something. "A toy. And they let me have it. Didn't even check it out. The others are jealous, you know, 'cause I get a _toy_ in here and they don't get _nothing_ –"

He broke off into harsh giggles again as he slowly placed his hands back on the table, the metal cuffs scraping against the surface – but this time, something dark and compact was clenched in his left hand, and at first, Audrey thought it was a gun. Her hand instinctively flew to her holster, as did Miles's, but after a moment, she relaxed as her eyes studied the object, trying to make out what it was.

"Like it?" asked Shapiro, his scruffy face breaking into a pleased grin.

"What is that? What kind of evidence is that?" demanded Miles. "Is this a joke? You're giving us a _toy_?"

"You know – heh, you know, some of the others in here, they got theories," said Shapiro. He began stroking the item fondly, his eyes alight like a child's on Christmas morning. "They don't think the Batman actually exists. Think _you're_ the crazies, hunting a ghost that don't exist." He leaned forward, baring his teeth. "But I know the truth."

"How is this relevant?" asked Miles, the incredulity apparent in his tone. Now _he_ seemed to be of the opinion that this excursion was a waste of time; their opinions apparently had swapped. And Audrey, on the other hand, was no longer so convinced. She sat quietly, studying the man and his facial expressions, her eyes flickering every now and then to his treasure.

"I know the truth – _this_ is the truth, right here." Shapiro pounded his fist on the table, the item still clenched tightly in his palm. "Batman gave me one of his toys, so I got proof, right? Right?" He then opened his hand and placed the black item on the table gingerly, as if afraid for its fragility, and sat back in his chair, looking utterly proud of himself.

"What is it?" said Audrey.

"I _told_ you, it's one of his _toys_. Probably his favorite one. I imagine he was pretty sad to lose it, don't you think?"

"Looks like some sort of gun," said Miles. He reached out and picked it up – Shapiro gasped slightly and hesitated, raising his manacled hands a few inches – and turned it over in his palms, studying it. "I'd say it's a grapple gun, but I've never seen one like this. It's so...compact. Could be easily carried and concealed. I don't recognize the make, though."

"Would you?" asked Audrey, holding out her hand to examine it herself. "How often do you play around with grapple guns, Miles?"

Miles glared at her but said nothing; he folded his arms and turned his head back to Shapiro, frowning. "How did you come to be in possession of this?"

"He dropped it," Shapiro said simply. "Before you cops showed up to rescue the Langfords. He was there, playing his part in it all, and we got in a fight, right? Didn't agree with me on something – something small, don't matter." His eyes flickered to the right. "Point is, he was stupid and dropped it, and I picked it up, meaning to return it to him 'cause I _know_ it's his favorite. Do you think he knows I got it?"

"I don't think we can get prints off this," said Miles, looking resigned and defeated. "It's virtually useless. He's got nothing."

"We can run a manufacturer match and see what comes up," said Audrey. "Someone somewhere produced this, and no offense, but I'm not really assured by your obviously extensive grapple gun knowledge. We'll run the parts separately if we need to, we'll take it apart and see –"

In a split second with an earsplitting scrape of metal against concrete, a blur of orange shot up into the air and across the table; Shapiro's chair toppled backward onto the floor. Without a second thought, Miles whipped out his gun but barely had time to point it into the face of the inmate before he received a harsh, forceful punch straight to the nose. As he fell sideways off his chair, Audrey's hands shot to her waist but her fingers barely brushed her own gun as Shapiro came at her, his manacled hands raised – he threw them around the back of her neck and pulled her closely, within inches of his grubby face.

"That's not part of the deal," he hissed, his breath warm against her cheeks. Sputtering, she desperately reached for her gun, but Shapiro pressed the cold metal further into her skin, seething.

"What – what do you –?"

"I didn't say you could take apart my toy," he whispered menacingly, almost a completely different man from the one who had just moments before sat at the table, happily describing to the detectives how he had happened upon the grapple gun. "I don't like being fooled, lady. I won't have you _tinkering_ with my _toy_. I _told_ you, I have to give it back to him."

"We're just going to examine it, we won't –"

With a low growl, Shapiro dug the cuffs deeper into Audrey's neck, pulling her closer until their noses were nearly touching – his hands clenched around her throat and still she wiggled her fingers toward her belt, her arms painfully bending to reach the gun, her only protection –

But a second later, the cuffs loosened and the man's hands were gone from her neck – howling, he was pulled backward, away from Audrey, his arms flailing wildly in the air.

"Damn door, it always sticks!" exclaimed Pappas from the threshold.

Gasping, Audrey climbed off the table, her hands feeling the indentations the cuffs had left in her neck. From the corner of her eye, she watched as Shapiro was led from the room by several orderlies, sobbing loudly, obviously quite devastated over the loss of his coveted toy. Glancing back to the table, the small, compact item still rested upon the gritty surface, playing the part of a completely innocent party. She snatched it up and turned it over in her hands once before pocketing it.

"The deal's off," she muttered hoarsely.

As Audrey and Miles departed from Arkham Asylum fifteen minutes later, their feet again treading across the weed-ridden brick pathway outside, Miles groaned dramatically.

"Dammit. I think he broke my nose."

"I _did_ say we'd probably make it out alive, but I guess I forgot to mention injuries were still completely possible."

Miles scoffed. Still massaging her bruised neck, Audrey glanced at him and even managed a feeble grin. "I think I know the meaning of 'depressive schizophrenia' now."

* * *

Four hours later, after extensive searches through all the databases within MCU's legal access, still nothing worthwhile had come up; Shepherd vented his opinions by grunting loudly and kicking his desk.

"Just give it up," groaned Miles, who was now sporting a large white bandage across the middle of his face. "Adams, the guy's a lunatic, that's why he's _locked up_, and he probably bought it in a toy store for kicks."

Audrey stared at the computer screen, her fingers still poised on the keyboard and carpal tunnel beginning to afflict her hands.

"I'm going to get coffee," muttered Shepherd. "Don't be surprised if I don't come back."

Sighing heavily, Audrey turned the gun over in her hands multiple times, feeling as if she was clinging onto a desperate, flimsy piece of nothing – the "evidence" _was_ virtually useless. Miles was right. Shapiro had nothing to offer them, nothing to help incriminate the Batman in the murders at all, nothing to further their investigation into the true identity of the man supposedly responsible for organizing the murder plot –

"Wait," she suddenly cried, sitting up straighter in her chair. Her eyes locked on a minute, almost invisible carving on the underside of the gun, something they hadn't noticed before – they'd been so intent on running matches on the different parts that they hadn't examined all illustrative aspects of the gun quite so closely.

"What, you figured out which toy store he got it from?" drawled Miles, laughing from his chair a desk away.

"This mark – why didn't we notice it before? I think it's a manufacturer's signature! It's hardly noticeable, it's so small, but if you turn it just like this, the light catches it... Miles, come here, can you make out these letters?"

"I'm guessing it says FAO Schwartz, Adams," he said, sauntering over to the newly-energized Audrey. He casually took the gun in his hands and squinted at the letters. "I think it's an M and a... P?"

"No, I think it's a D. M.D.," muttered Audrey. "I don't know it. Hold on." She swiveled in her chair toward the computer screen again, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she pulled up three different relevant databases.

"All we have left is damn decaf," said Shepherd, appearing behind Miles again and holding a steaming foam cup. "What are you doing, Adams?"

"She's browsing toy stores, sir. We've ruled out FAO Schwartz."

After scrolling for about thirty seconds, a listing finally sparked Audrey's attention.

"McDowell Dynamics Corporation," she announced, pointing to a name on the screen. "They're a relatively unknown defense contractor based in Washington – it says here they specialize in producing small devices for military use, like Shapiro's grapple gun. And there – the signature is a match."

"So the Batman's been making regular trips to D.C., then," said Miles. "I see. I'm sure he often lunches with the President while he's there, too."

"No, no, wait, look at this," said Audrey frantically, pulling up another file. "They're too small to finance that kind of production all on their own – see, look at that figure there. The government isn't paying them nearly enough to make a profit."

"Then they're getting the money from somewhere else," said Shepherd.

"Yeah. And probably exchanging intel and surplus products in return." Another file appeared on the screen, and Audrey squinted into the brightness, scanning the page for a name, all the while hoping she wasn't on some wild goose chase –

And then she saw it.

"There." She pointed. It was familiar, a name she was used to seeing in the paper every day, but not one she'd necessarily expect to find in the middle of such a critical investigation. For a second, her stomach dropped as she began to comprehend where this chase had finally led them – but, through the shock, she realized it made perfect sense.

"It's – are you sure?" asked Shepherd. "Are you – I mean, we didn't miss anything? These records are correct?"

"Updated a couple days ago, sir, according to the date on the file."

Miles whistled. "Right under our noses the whole time."

Audrey nodded in complete agreement. Then, without quite meaning to, she glanced away from the computer and out the naked window to the right of the desk. The bright lights of a nighttime Gotham burned into her eyes, but one tall building less than ten blocks away caught her attention specifically.

"Wayne Enterprises," Shepherd muttered. "Jesus."

* * *

The surface of the dilapidated wooden table was covered edge to edge in maps, air travel documents, plane arrival and departure times, and – the most recent addition to the mess – a small collection of fake visas. A dark, bearded man was clacking away at the computer, where he had been sitting all day, determined but exhausted. Everyone else had left for the night, securing their final preparations for the journey to America or catching up on some sleep. And tonight, this man had volunteered to stay behind with the goal of finishing last-minute yet extremely necessary research.

Without bothering to stifle a yawn, he rose from his seat, stretched, and crossed the room for a data disk. But as he was passing by the small, glass tanks Hajdari had hastily set up just days ago, he paused, his heart stopping in disbelief; he edged closer, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks. He _had_ been staring at a computer screen for the better portion of the day, after all.

But no – he wasn't imagining things tonight. Completely forgetting about the data disk, he made a grab for the phone and dialed Hajdari immediately.

Fifteen minutes later, he arrived, and the two men peered into the three cages, their faces reflecting back at them in the glass.

"Twenty-four hours," whispered Hajdari. "Dead within twenty-four hours." Then, "You turned on the ultraviolet lamp directly after you called me, yes?"

The man nodded.

"Should be fine by now." Hajdari reached up to flick the switch on the large, bright light beaming down into the cages. Then, strapping on a glove, he removed a lid to a cage and prodded one of the motionless rats.

"We gave them a high concentration of the _Yersinia pestis_," he murmured more to himself than to his colleague, "and accelerated the rate of infection. We need to manufacture more on a larger scale so it can be mass-produced." He bent down, his nose pressed up against the glass, on the other side of which a dead rat lay on its side. "But we know it works."

Hajdari stood again and discarded the glove; his face expressed an almost sort of whimsical thrill, and his delight in their achievement couldn't go unnoticed.

"Have you found anything?" he suddenly asked, and his tone was professional once more.

His colleague nodded and motioned toward the computer, forgotten in the excitement over the dead rats. The bold title of WAYNE ENTERPRISES headed the page, under which were the words WAYNE PHARMEUTICALS in a smaller font. And, completely ignorant to his imminent involvement in their plan, the unsmiling face of Bruce Wayne stared up at the two scientists from the screen.


End file.
